I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
The greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.
I think that's what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.
Tom gets by, Navidson succeeds. Tom just wants to be, Navidson must become. And yet despite such obvious differences, anyone who looks past Tom's wide grin and considers his eyes will find surprisingly deep pools of sorrow. Which is how we know they are brothers, because like Tom, Navidson's eyes share the same water.
I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of sum'thing has always been and always will be you.
We all create stories to protect ourselves.
It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.
With his nightcaps and the tatters of his dressing-gown he patches up the gaps in the structure of the universe.
Absolutely nothing visible to the eye provides a reason for or even evidence of those terrifying shifts which can in a matter of moments reconstitute a simple path into an extremely complicated one.
It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it's mine.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.
Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.
Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.
Both pieces are similar in one way:what one could believe, one doubts. Nicoise because one depends upon the moral sense of the filmmaker, The Navidson Record because one depends upon the moral sense of the world.
Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.
Maybe you saw her first? Caught a glimpse between the lines, between the letters, like a ghost in the mirror, a ghost in the wings?
Even the brightest magnesium flare can do little against such dark except blind the eyes of the one holding it. Thus one craves what by seeing one has in fact not seen.
My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.
Explanation is not half as strong as experience but experience is not half as strong as experience and understanding
No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
I could see her get all nervous but she was also excited. Nightmares have that quality, don't they?
Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.
I do not know anything about Art with a capital A. What I do know about is my art. Because it concerns me. I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.
Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.
I live at the end of some interminable corridor which the lucky damned can call hell but which the much unluckier atheists - and your mother heads up that bunch- must simply get used to calling home.
Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.
More Mark Z. Danielewski Quotations (Based on Topics)
Love - Space - Light - Letters - Passion - Flying - Morality - Experience - Wisdom & Knowledge - Cry - Man - Speaking - Books - Life - Sense & Perception - Art - Immortality - Patience - God - View All Mark Z. Danielewski Quotations
More Mark Z. Danielewski Quotations (By Book Titles)
- House of Leaves
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